


it's incomplete (without you)

by ohmygodwhy



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Fluff, Fred is a good dad, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Rain, Sharing a Bed, hearing impaired Jughead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-11 20:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11721666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygodwhy/pseuds/ohmygodwhy
Summary: He thinks the traction of the tires maybe splashes his friend with even more water, but—well, he’s already soaked anyways, right? Archie smiles apologetically when he rolls the window down and leans out.“Jug?” he asks, “That you?”Jug tenses a little, crosses his arms over his chest and says, “No.”





	it's incomplete (without you)

**Author's Note:**

> this is literally so self-indulgent and soft like i started out like 'ok im gonna write some Angst' and then i couldnt do it i had to have at least a hopeful ending im so sappy. this is like?? post-episode 4 but before jug moves in with the andrews
> 
> warning for grundy and everything tht comes with her

 

Archie finds him, ten p.m. on a Thursday night, walking on the side of the road in the pouring rain. 

It’s not the normal kind of pouring, either, the light sprinkles they get in the spring—it’s coming down harder than it has in a long time, unseasonably cold for this early in fall. It had been humid as hell all day, so no one had been very surprised when it started raining. They’d had to cancel practice, but Archie wasn’t all that hung up about it, because he still had half an essay to write before third period tomorrow. 

He has the radio on, something soft in the background, squinting for all he’s worth. He’s still not super comfortable driving without the sun in the sky, and the rain isn’t really helping. Honestly, he’s surprised he even manages to see Jughead in the downpour outside. He almost drove right past, thinking it must’ve been a tree or something, but a glimpse of that damn hat and he was screeching—slowing down gently, alright—to a stop. 

He thinks the traction of the tires maybe splashes his friend with even more water, but—well, he’s already soaked anyways, right? Archie smiles apologetically when he rolls the window down and leans out.

“Jug?” he asks, “That you?”

Jug tenses a little, crosses his arms over his chest and says, “No.” 

“What’re you doing out here? It’s pouring.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Jughead quips back; he pauses, turns to look at him, “I’m just—I’m on my way home,” he says, voice a little softer.

They may not be on the best of terms—Archie apologized at the football game, sure, but it takes more than that and a few meaningful glances to fix everything; Archie’s always had trouble picking up on the little things, but even he knew that—but they’ve still known each other for years. One summer doesn’t change that. And when Jug’s lying about something important, his voice is always a little pitched, a little more deliberate than it usually is. 

Still, he doesn’t know if they’re at the point where Archie can press about it—Jug is usually good about telling him outright, or at least implying it—so instead he says, “That’s a long walk. You need a ride?”

Jug does that thing where he swallows, glances away. His hair is wet, some of the longer strands sticking to his cheek.

“No, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly, crossing his arms a little tighter, “I’m fine. It’s late, anyways, your dad’ll wonder where you are.”

“He won’t mind,” Archie says.

Jughead just shrugs. The rain is very loud, hitting the roof of the car like a soothing set of natural drums. 

“You wanna stay the night at my place?” he asks on impulse. He’s been doing that a lot lately. 

Jughead blinks at him.

“It’s a school day tomorrow.”

“You’ll get to school faster,” he points out, “My house is closer. And it’s closer right now, too. My dad won’t mind,” he adds when he sees Jughead open his mouth.  He’s always had this weird thing about overstepping his bounds, never wanting to be ‘too much trouble’. Archie thinks that Jug’s been told he’s too much trouble by too many people, and so maybe he kinda believes it. It’s not true, of course, but Archie gets that. He doesn’t like it, but he gets it. 

“You sure?” he asks, voice a rare shade of uncertain. 

“Yeah,” Archie says confidently, “You haven’t been over in a while, I think he kinda misses you.”

He thinks he sees Jug smiles vaguely at that, though it’s hard to tell with all the rain.

He waits a moment, then two, and then sighs, hiking his backpack further up his back and reaching for the door handle. 

He gets inside quickly, like he wants to avoid getting water in the car. He’s soaking wet, so it doesn’t help much, but Archie appreciates the effort. 

Jug shoves the backpack down betweenhis feet—it’s stuffed full, and Archie wonders vaguely what’s in there. If it’s his school supplies, he thinks they must be soaked, too. Archie hopes for the best. 

 

When they get home, Dad goes to hug Jug, realizes Jug’s soaked to the bone and he himself is dry and probably comfortable, and claps him on the shoulder instead. That gets a smile out of Jug, which makes Archie smile. It’s been a long time since he’s seen him smile.

He’s missed it. He didn’t realize it before, caught up in All The Stuff That Happened Over Summer, but he’s. He’s really missed it. 

“You know where he shower is,” Dad says with this little fond smile on his face, “Archie’ll grab the blow up mattress and some sheets.”

Jug looks like wants to protest, but just settles on nodding with a small smile, “Thanks, Mr. A,” he says.

“It’s no problem, Jug,” Dad answers, “I’m glad you and Archie are getting along again.”

A few minutes later, after Jug’s trudged his way up the stairs with that bag of rocks over his shoulder, Dad’s smiles drops a little. 

“Has Jug been okay, lately?” he asks, turning to Archie, “You said you found him walking in the rain?”

“Yeah, a few blocks from school. And honestly, I don’t—I don’t really know,” he admits, a little guilty, “Things haven’t been great around town lately, and we only just started talking again.”

Dad raises his eyebrows at that; Archie is suddenly very aware that he hadn’t talked to him at all about their falling out over the summer. 

Archie feels even guiltier. He thinks Dad must sense it, some kind of Dad Power, so he doesn’t push. 

He sighs a little, “Look out for him alright? You gotta look out for each other, especially now.”

Archie nods, “I will.” 

His dad smiles, a little tired, but a little proud, too.

 

When Archie pulls the mattress into his bedroom, Jughead is crouched near the window, clothes still wet and plastered to his body, pulling wet notes and paper and textbooks out of his backpack and laying them out on the floor with a careful reverence. His hands are shaking a little. Some of the looseleaf paper’s ink has bled through, ruining entire pages.

His head shoots up when Archie walks in.

“Sorry,” he says, “I just wanted to get all this stuff out before it could get any worse. I’m just hoping at least some of it’ll dry out.”

Archie leaves the mattress in the middle of the doorway, stepping around it. 

“You want me to help?” he asks, crouching down across from him, “You can shower and I’ll get the rest of it out.”

“No,” Jug says quickly, and then, “I uh—that’s okay, I kinda wanna do it myself. I don’t want anything to rip.”

Archie raises an eyebrow, but nods, leaning back on his heels to push himself up. He busies himself with making up the makeshift bed.

About ten minutes later, Jughead has everything laid out on the floor agains the far wall, backpack in the corner, looking suspiciously still full. Archie decides not to comment on it. 

“Could I borrow some clothes?” Jug asks, breaking Archie out of whatever zone he was in, staring at the wet graphite bleeding through Jug’s chemistry notes; he remembers watching him write them out lazily, a bag of Cheetos stashed carefully on his lap under the desk. It was a mystery how he never got caught. He’d been getting away with that stuff since middle school.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, stumbling over himself. There’s something in the air, something painfully tense and fragile. He thinks whatever mood he found Jug in, out in the rain by himself, wasn’t a happy one.

He digs out some sweatpants and a long sleeved shirt, the warmest, comfiest one he can find. Jug takes them with a small smile, and slips out the door. Archie hears the water start a few minutes later. 

Archie sits on the bed, scrolling mindlessly through a few apps on his phone to avoid worrying, because he’s _worried._ Jug’s always been good at hiding things he thought Archie didn’t need to hear or know for whatever reason Jug thought. Archie wonders when he’d stopped paying attention. He wonders when they’d stopped telling each other things, and why. He thinks he’s been so wrapped up in himself lately that he’s just…stopped watching. 

Jug slips back in, looking warmer and drier, a bundle of wet clothes in his hands. His hair is halfway dry, wet beanie in his other hand, the hearing aid in his right ear a little more visible, and then—oh _shit,_ he forgot.

“Oh _shit,_ I forgot,” he says, standing up quickly, “Is your aid okay? It’s not supposed to get wet, is it broken?”

Jug actually has the nerve to smile at him a little, the edge of his lips curling up like Archie’s being funny.

“I think it’s fine, for the most part. It wasn’t, like, directly exposed to the rain.”

Archie breathes a sight of relief, but still says, “You’ve gotta be more careful with that. That one’s your back up.”

Jug only shrugs a little, goes, “Okay, _mom_ ,” in that tone that always makes Archie smile despite himself. 

Jug throws his wet clothes in the corner next to his backpack, the way he used to do with his wet swimsuit. He set the beanie on the floor near his pillow, though. He’s always been more comfortable having it nearby. Hasn’t gone a day without it since they were like eight. 

He crawls under the blankets quick, still shivering a little as he does it.

“You okay, Jug?” he asks on principle, “You need a hoodie or something?”

Jug shakes his head, “Nah, I’m good. Just gotta warm up.”

Archie reaches up to flick the light switch off, glancing at Jug for silent permission. Jug hums his approval, and then it’s dark. The rain blocks out some of the moonlight that usually pours in through the window, but it’s still enough to vaguely illuminate Jug’s skinny frame when Archie rolls over to look down at him.

The rain falls outside, a steady patter on the pavement. Jug’s eyes are open, but he’s not looking at Archie. He’s not usually like this, Archie thinks. He’s always been a little quieter than most kids, but he’s never this silent unless something is wrong. It’s either this or almost aggressive sarcasm and attempted apathy. Archie hates both of them.

“You been okay, Jug?” he asks quietly. His voice cuts through the silent room, and the words hang in the air.

“Yeah,” Jug says, voice a little heavy, “I’ve been fine. What about you? How’ve you been holding up, after the whole…G-word thing.” 

Archie’s chest suddenly feels heavy. He doesn’t wanna talk about this.

“I’ve been okay,” he lies.

Jughead snorts, “No you haven’t.” He sounds more like his usual self, blunt and honest. 

Archie sighs, “No, I haven’t. I’m…my dad wanted me to see a therapist.”

Jug makes a vaguely curious sound, “How’s that been going?”

Archie shrugs, even though he knows Jug can’t see him, “It’s been alright. We tried this one, Mrs. Evans or something, but I kinda—I kinda freaked out when I saw her?”

“She was an older woman, right?” Jug points out softly, “After what happened, it makes sense.”

“I guess,” Archie agrees, still feeling vaguely ashamed, “But anyways, we found this other one, an older dude who talked about football with me the whole first session, so that was pretty cool.”

“Do you like him?”

“Yeah,” Archie admits, “He’s nice. And he doesn’t talk to me like I’m some…helpless victim, y’know?” he sighs, rolling onto his back, “You and him—it’s like you’re the only ones who treat me the same. I feel like everyone’s been like, walking on eggshells around me, like one wrong word will send me into a breakdown or something. My dad, too. He tries not to act like it, but…I know he worries about me a lot,”

“He should,” Jug breaks in gently.

“I know,” Archie admits, “I just—I wish I wasn’t so much trouble. Like, first someone is literally murdered, and then I have to go make it all about me.”

“You do have a tendency to do that,” Jughead agrees, which stings a bit, actually, “But this wasn’t one of those times. You were being abused, man. Statutory rape and all that. And that’s on her, not you.”

Archie is silent for a moment. He knows people have been thinking it lately, but only a few people have told him to his face. His therapist told him he needed to acknowledge what happened to him for what it was before he could move on. It’s still hard, a lot of the time .

“I still,” Archie pauses, “I still miss her, sometimes. I hate it, but I miss her.”

“A lot of abuse victims say that,” Jug says quietly, “And you were abused, Arch.”

Archie takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and just letting himself be for a moment, “Yeah,” he whispers, “I know.”

He hears the rustle of blankets, the sound of Jughead sitting up. He jumps a little when he feels a cool hand on his arm.

“Sorry,” Jughead whispers, and then, “Move over.”

Archie blinks, surprised, but scoots over all the same, lifting up the blanket for Jug to slide under.

“You okay?” he asks on instinct, “You never wanna cuddle, not even when we were little.”

“No one said anything about cuddling, Andrews,” Jug says, probably with that smug little grin on his face; it’s gotten too dark to see it. “It’s just…cold down there. Your bed’s always warm, even in the winter—you’re like a human furnace.” 

Archie smiles a little. 

Jughead is close enough that Archie can smell his own shampoo, hear the steady sound of his breathing. Slowly, like he’s trying not to scare him, he feels Jug wrap his hand carefully around his wrist, the way they used to do when they were little. Archie is hit with an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia. 

“I’m scared,” he admits suddenly, “I’m scared I’ll never be able to move on from this.”

There’s silence for a long moment. He hears Jug inhale like he’s gonna say something, but it’s a few more moments before he actually speaks, “I’m scared I’m never gonna be anything,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid someone will overhear, “I’m scared I’m never gonna get out of this goddamn town. I don’t wanna be stuck here.”

“I’m scared I’m not good enough,” Archie admits, going along with all the sudden confessions; as much as he’s afraid that admitting his fears will somehow make them come true, he thinks he needs to hear what Jughead has to say. He thinks this is his opportunity to finally listen again, to be there again, “I’m scared she was lying to me—that I’m not talented at all, that my music is garbage. I don’t know what I’ll do if that’s true. I don’t have anything else.”

“Sure you do,” Jug says, rolling onto his side, his face probably a foot or two away from Archie’s, “but you’re not gonna have to worry about that. You’re talented, Archie. I’m no music producer, obviously, but I have ears—or at least one.”

Archie huffs a weak laugh at that—it feels like old times, almost. Something good. 

“I’m serious,” Jug says, “You’re gonna do big things. You’re gonna—get a scholarship or something, go off to college and write your music and maybe you’ll be famous, and maybe you won’t be, but you’ll be great.”

He sounds wistful, almost, something in his voice Archie does Not like, so, “So will you,” he says, “You’ll be a famous author or something, or maybe a journalist.”

It’s Jughead who laughs this time, something humorless and short, “I’m not going to college, Arch. Don’t have the money—lord knows I won’t get a sports scholarship, and I’m not smart enough for an academic one.”

_You’re one of the smartest people I know_ , Archie wants to say, upset that he could ever even think something like that, but Jug keeps talking, not giving him time to cute in.

“I’ll graduate high school, and then I’ll get some shitty job at like, a grocery store, and maybe I’ll live in a trailer, too,” he laughs, that same empty sound, “And I’ll write books that’ll never be published, and I’ll do that until I die,” he says it like it’s a fact, written in stone, “Either that,” he continues, “or I’ll get mixed up in some illegal gang shit and get shot before I’m thirty. I think I like that second one better, because it’s more dramatic instead of just straight up depressing.

“So,” He takes a shuttering breath, like it’s too heavy to let in, “While you’re out there living it up, quote me in a song or something, yeah? Not anything too obvious, just something small, so only a few people will know what it means, but—but everyone’ll be singing it, thinking they know what they’re singing about. I think that’d be funny as shit,” his voice breaks, something sharp and harsh. 

Archie surges forwards, tracing his hand up Jug’s arm until he reaches his shoulder, his face. Jug’s cheeks are wet, and he flinches back just a little when Archie touches him. 

“Jug,” he says, feeling something sharp and desperate in his chest when he doesn’t look up, “Juggie,”

His eyes snap up at the nickname—he looks so tired, the faint light casting deep shadows over his face. He looks so young. 

“You’re incredible,” he says, grasping Jug’s shaky hand, “You’re—you’re so smart, you know that? You blow me away with the stuff you say, the stuff you write—you’re a great writer, Jug. I remember we had this writing contest in like fourth grade, something about dreams or something, and Samantha B. won, because she won everything, but yours? Yours is the one everyone remembers. The boy lost in the forest, where the trees sung to him so he wouldn’t feel alone until he found his way back.”

“It was so _bad_ ,” Jug says, voice rough but laughing. 

“It was inspiring,” Archie counters, “It blew my nine-year-old mind. It was better than my race car story.”

“That’s ‘cause yours was literally the plot of _Cars_. You weren’t even being subtle.”

Archie laughs a little, a surprisingly wet sound, “You’re so much more than everyone says you are. I know people tell you shit, and I know—you act like like it doesn’t matter, but I know you listen to it. And you shouldn’t. So what if you’re not the perfect student, or that you were born on the Southside? It doesn’t matter. You’re going places, Jug. This town can’t handle you ‘cause you’re meant for something bigger.”

“What if I never leave?” he asks, quietly desperate, “I have nothing outside of this town—I barely have anything _in_ it. I don’t have the money to get out. I’m not— _good_ enough to get out. Some people just stay here forever. Maybe I’m one of those people.”

“You don’t have to be,” Archie says quietly. 

Jug just shakes his head, hair rustling against the pillow, “I don’t even know where I’d go.”

“You could come with me.”

Jughead snorts, “Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m always stupid,” Archie counters, “And I’m serious—we’re like, The Two Musketeers; the world won’t know what hit them. We could go wherever we want, do whatever we want. We could finally go on that road trip.”

Jughead laughs again, something soft and tired, “That would be nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You won’t skip out on me this time, right?”

“No,” Archie says, “Not again. Never again. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Juggie. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Jughead whispers. Archie feels Jug squeeze his hand; he squeezes back. 

Slowly, he trails a hand up to hover above Jug’s head, “Can I?” he asks softly. Jug nods, and he runs his fingers lightly through his hair. It’s soft, dried off by now, loose the way it is before he wears his hat all day. 

“I’m sorry, Jug,” he says quietly. He’s sorry for so much.

“I know,” he says back, “I’m sorry, too.” 

Neither of them say anything else. The rain still hasn’t stopped falling. His eyelids are heavy.

He knows nothing’s really been resolved. Everything’s still fucked up and awful. He still doesn’t know why Jug was out that late, and why he didn’t call his parents to let them know he was staying the night. He still doesn’t know how long he’s gonna wake up feeling violated and afraid. 

But he feels like they finally understand each other again, the easy, natural way they always have. He feels like they’re finally on the same page, everything laid out in the open, the way they used to trade secrets in Jug’s old treehouse. 

Nothing has changed, but Archie feels like things have finally shifted back into place.

 

He wakes up to his alarm with Jug curled into his chest (hearing aid poking his stomach because he’s always had this bad habit of forgetting to take it off), breath light and steady, their fingertips still touching. 

The rain has stopped. Archie commits this moment to memory. It’s the kind of moment people write songs about— _quote me in one of your songs someday, but nothing too obvious._ He can work with that.

Gently, lovingly, and because there’s no other way, save a bucket of ice, to wake him up, Archie picks up his still-beeping phone and hold the alarm against Jughead’s ear, backing off quickly as he jumps awake. 

Jug cusses him out and hits him with a pillow for like five minutes, and Archie still has half an essay to write before third period, but they’re both laughing, and the rain has stopped, so he counts it as a win. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> comments keep me young & healthy in these trying times


End file.
